From the moment you bring your baby home from the hospital, you realize that your life has changed. You can no longer have a spur of the moment date (unless your parents are feeling particularly benevolent), you can no longer sleep whenever or however long you might want to, and you can't take a vacation from September through May. In short, you can no longer be the center of your own universe. Then, one day, far off in the future, you have a chance to reclaim your life. You realize that no one is going to pull you out of bed to make pancakes (my husband learned long ago not to try that one again), there are no back to school supplies to purchase, and you can eat a cupcake at four in the afternoon without having to share. I've discovered that these are all very good things.
This weekend, my husband and I spontaneously headed to a ten a.m. showing of a romantic comedy at our local movie theater, followed by an alfresco lunch (okay, it was Culvers but still), and an afternoon of returning hastily purchased items to their original owners. We also took advantage of last minute (free) tickets to Wrigley Field and still managed to put in an appearance at a college graduation party on our way home. When our kids were little, there were months I didn't spend as much time with my husband as I did in these past two days.
There are still times, when I see an adorable toddler in the mall or when I walk past my credenza filled with framed images of my own two sweet babies, I miss the past. Then, there are days like the last two when I see the possibilities still ahead of me. The end of full-time motherhood has given me a chance to discover new interests (buon giorno italiano), embrace new challenges (still working on that novel), and rediscover relationships that all too often took a back seat to the demands of parenthood.
I'm not naive. I know I'll be mourning the loss of my full-time job for awhile. But, even though a pretty big door has closed, I have to say, I'm starting to enjoy the view out the window.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Rooting for the Underdogs
My kids will tell you that I'm a sap about sports. I love watching people rise to new heights to accomplish a goal that they've set for themselves. I love seeing people realize a dream. It's great when it happens to anyone but it's phenomenal when it happens to an underdog who comes out of nowhere to beat the best of the best. Whether it's an unheralded eighteen year-old skater who has spent years practicing triple salchows having the performance of her life in the Olympics or a sixty year-old golfer trying to beat the young lions who weren't even born when he won his last major, I'm riveted to the TV, cheering them on. I'm a complete sucker for the triumph-over-adversity-never-give-up sagas played out so often in sports. Today, I spent far too much time in front of the television (c'mon, it was 100 degrees outside) captivated by two such events.
The British Open, usually won by highly ranked golfers like Tiger Woods, was won by an overweight, forty-two year-old Irishman ranked 111th in the world. He had tried nineteen times before and suffered through the breast cancer death of his wife before having his moment of triumph. He didn't win because the younger, stronger contenders blew it (although they did misstep enough to make it easier in the end), he won it because he hung in there and did what he needed to do under the pressure of trying to achieve what he called "a lifelong dream". By the trophy presentation, I was crying as much as his own mother.
Next, I watched, (as I threw in a load of laundry, I don't want you to think I'm a total slug) a never-say-die Japanese soccer team beat the mighty Americans in a World Cup final that went to overtime and ended in a three to one victory in penalty kicks. While I started off rooting for team USA, it was impossible not to be happy for the victors. Their country has been through so much, their triumph is sure to bring temporary relief for millions of people anxious to celebrate anything, even something as ultimately meaningless as a sporting event.
Yes, I should have been doing something constructive with all those hours I spent observing someone else's achievements. Yes, I could have been cleaning out a closet or editing that book that refuses to edit itself. Instead, I got inspiration from being reminded that with a little hard work, some luck and perseverance, great things can happen. To anyone.
There are worse ways to spend a (did I mention it was hot?) Sunday afternoon.
The British Open, usually won by highly ranked golfers like Tiger Woods, was won by an overweight, forty-two year-old Irishman ranked 111th in the world. He had tried nineteen times before and suffered through the breast cancer death of his wife before having his moment of triumph. He didn't win because the younger, stronger contenders blew it (although they did misstep enough to make it easier in the end), he won it because he hung in there and did what he needed to do under the pressure of trying to achieve what he called "a lifelong dream". By the trophy presentation, I was crying as much as his own mother.
Next, I watched, (as I threw in a load of laundry, I don't want you to think I'm a total slug) a never-say-die Japanese soccer team beat the mighty Americans in a World Cup final that went to overtime and ended in a three to one victory in penalty kicks. While I started off rooting for team USA, it was impossible not to be happy for the victors. Their country has been through so much, their triumph is sure to bring temporary relief for millions of people anxious to celebrate anything, even something as ultimately meaningless as a sporting event.
Yes, I should have been doing something constructive with all those hours I spent observing someone else's achievements. Yes, I could have been cleaning out a closet or editing that book that refuses to edit itself. Instead, I got inspiration from being reminded that with a little hard work, some luck and perseverance, great things can happen. To anyone.
There are worse ways to spend a (did I mention it was hot?) Sunday afternoon.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
I've Got a New Drug
Consider this blog a public service warning. If you consider yourself a fan of food with the dangerous salty/sweet combo, do not, I repeat, do not venture into your neighborhood Costco and succumb to purchasing the ginormous (but, then again, what isn't ginormous at Costco?) container of Sea Salt Caramels. And if you are walking past one of those friendly, smiling purveyors of free samples, keep walking. You won't just be saving yourself $8.69 and a few hundred calories. Trust me.
It's not the first time that Costco has reeled me in with their goodies. I've purchased one of their $17.00 mousse-filled sheet cakes for every major party I've thrown in the last five years. My freezer is full of every variety of bread from their bakery and their two inch thick NY strips have occupied a prominent place on our grill this summer. But this is different. This is scary. I'm a person who doesn't even like candy all that much and now I find myself breaking into a cold sweat whenever I start to see the bottom of the container.
So, until I get sick of them, I've decided I have to at least ration them. I'm happy to say that I'm down to two or three a day but my expanding waistline and I have decided that's not good enough. If this keeps up, I may be forced to hire a hypnotist to hit me with a dose of aversion therapy before I can set foot again in that warehouse. If you know a good one, please let me know. My container is almost empty.
It's not the first time that Costco has reeled me in with their goodies. I've purchased one of their $17.00 mousse-filled sheet cakes for every major party I've thrown in the last five years. My freezer is full of every variety of bread from their bakery and their two inch thick NY strips have occupied a prominent place on our grill this summer. But this is different. This is scary. I'm a person who doesn't even like candy all that much and now I find myself breaking into a cold sweat whenever I start to see the bottom of the container.
So, until I get sick of them, I've decided I have to at least ration them. I'm happy to say that I'm down to two or three a day but my expanding waistline and I have decided that's not good enough. If this keeps up, I may be forced to hire a hypnotist to hit me with a dose of aversion therapy before I can set foot again in that warehouse. If you know a good one, please let me know. My container is almost empty.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Summer Nights
Just said goodbye to the parents after spending a wonderful day enjoying all the best things summer has to offer - firing up the grill, sitting out on the deck way past sunset, and indulging in fresh peach cobbler. As my dad said, heaven can't be much better than this. After living most of my life in Chicago, I'd have to agree. The length of the brutal winters only makes those of us crazy enough to live here a hardy bunch that appreciates and savors every minute of the shortest season of the year. We know it's going to be over before we know it and we're not about to let an opportunity to enjoy time in the warm sunshine slip away.
This holiday weekend, I was lucky enough to share two memorable gatherings - one with friends, one with family. One where I was a guest, one where I was the host. Two days ago, we shared the evening with friends we've been lucky enough to keep for thirty years. Today, I enjoyed the company of my amazing family and even got to share a prolonged meal with BOTH my kids. Granted, I'm for any holiday that involves plopping into the nearest comfortable lawn chair and imbibing in various cold drinks and endless excuses to eat. But this weekend was especially memorable. While we weren't motivated enough to get out of those lawn chairs and see the fireworks, we shared music, food and conversation with people we love without the interruption of television or cell phones. All we had was each other (and that peach cobbler) to keep us company.
I think my dad was right. It can't get too much better than that.
This holiday weekend, I was lucky enough to share two memorable gatherings - one with friends, one with family. One where I was a guest, one where I was the host. Two days ago, we shared the evening with friends we've been lucky enough to keep for thirty years. Today, I enjoyed the company of my amazing family and even got to share a prolonged meal with BOTH my kids. Granted, I'm for any holiday that involves plopping into the nearest comfortable lawn chair and imbibing in various cold drinks and endless excuses to eat. But this weekend was especially memorable. While we weren't motivated enough to get out of those lawn chairs and see the fireworks, we shared music, food and conversation with people we love without the interruption of television or cell phones. All we had was each other (and that peach cobbler) to keep us company.
I think my dad was right. It can't get too much better than that.
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